


heaven, reconstructed

by vaudelin



Series: supernatural codas [20]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Companion Piece, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, Episode Related, Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Fixing Heaven (Supernatural), Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Heaven, Longing, M/M, POV Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaudelin/pseuds/vaudelin
Summary: The chorus shifts uncomfortably, already filled with doubt. Castiel recognizes that feeling; he knows how it eats through the insides of every creature, tempting it to give in without making an attempt.He feels it too, but—Jack believes they are capable of doing this.Castiel chooses to believe him too.*[The series finale, now from Castiel's POV.]
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: supernatural codas [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/858428
Comments: 41
Kudos: 380
Collections: SPN Finale "Destiel is CANON" Collection





	heaven, reconstructed

**Author's Note:**

> So. The series finale. 
> 
> I know there are plenty of strong feelings about what happened in the final episode. I wrote this to help myself find comfort in what went down, and "fix" the things that upset me even in the new heaven. That being said, this fic isn't trying to rewrite canon; it just wants to give some insight into what Cas could have been up to during S15E20. Maybe it will help people who, like me, don't feel great about a heaven ending.

When Castiel opens his eyes, he is no longer in the Empty.

He is in heaven—the throne room, specifically; the cold white chair standing stoic in its center, flanked by a desk and low white divan. The ambient glow of the room is enough to cause Castiel to squint, his eyes adjusting after the darkness of the Empty.

Touching the steepled top of the throne is Jack, his fingers tracking the delicate arc of its construction. Brow drawn, eyes pensive. His tan jacket now a luminous white.

“Jack,” Castiel breathes. He rushes for his adoptive son, though he stops an arm’s length away, some impulse keeping him from closing their ranks with a sweeping hug. His outstretched hand falls back to his side.

Jack is different now; up close, Castiel can sense a change of life within him, the thrum and crackle of divine energy skimming beneath his skin. Jack conducts himself in an oddly composed manner; he slowly circles the throne, indifferent to the room and to Castiel himself.

“What happened?” Castiel asks, grave. “Where are Sam and Dean? Are they—” His throat clamps around the thought of them dead.

“No,” Jack says, implacably calm. “Chuck has been handled. They’re safe on Earth.”

A harsh breath escapes him, relieved. “Then how—” Castiel cuts himself off, realizing. His back straightens with reflexive deference, struck with the impulse to bow to command. “You’re God now, aren’t you?”

It makes sense; the change of clothes, of demeanour. Jack gives a knowing smile, soft and familiar, even as it seems too wise for his age.

“Why am I here?” Castiel asks, more coldly than he intended. “Can I go back to them?”

Jack shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Castiel. But Heaven will no longer interfere in the realm of humanity. Your help is needed here.”

A part of Castiel seeks to rebel against whatever is being asked of him; that part that was nurtured through years of living with the Winchesters, that longs to see them again. To see Dean again. Castiel knows already what happens when sons pay blind devotion to their fathers.

Or, in this instance, a father to his son.

But this is Jack. Castiel has witnessed the paradise his birth would usher in. And if he requires Castiel’s help...

Beneath Jack’s hand, the throne vanishes—as does the divan, the desk. The room, now a little emptier. A blank slate ready to be remade.

Carefully, Castiel asks, “What would you have me do?”

Jack smiles at him. “First, let me explain.”

* * *

Castiel gathers what angels remain in heaven inside a boardroom, a plain white space with a long table and multiple chairs. He isn’t sure when exactly the host adopted the bureaucratic tendencies observed among humans, but such favouritism is apparent in the very structure of heaven itself: the long, clean hallways leading to sterile rooms; door upon door upon door closing off each human inside their own private heaven.

All of humanity has been handled through one conventional format, the excitement and nuance and need of each individual hammered into one boilerplate ending:

Alone, for eternity.

It is precisely this bureaucracy that Jack seeks to change.

The angels present—Indra and Phanuel and Zadkiel among them, Naomi situated at the far end—eye Castiel with suspicion. With so few of them left, they have sensed whenever one of their ranks has fallen. When one such as Castiel has died.

They have also sensed the upgrade to his powers, Castiel himself raised by Jack’s will from seraph to archangel, his wings restored along with the rest of the host’s. Duty and instinct have the chorus before him bowing their heads as Castiel walks around the room, even as their personal relationships strain to accept the change.

“Heaven will be remade,” Castiel informs the chorus. “It is Jack’s wish that humanity no longer be kept in personal heavens, excepting those few soulmates whose heavens were made to be shared. Instead,” he continues, “we must create a new, open heaven. One where every soul is capable of visiting any other, should they wish. A paradise for all.”

The silence in the boardroom echoes endlessly, caught in the thrum of grace that composes Heaven itself.

Naomi clears her throat. “Forgive me, but what you ask—it cannot be done. Human beings are too contrary in nature; what is one person’s paradise is another’s personal hell. It is impossible to create a single world where everyone can interact and everyone is happy.” Her hand flutters, dismissive. “Just look at the mess made of Earth; would you have Heaven be the same?”

“Our God wills it, so it is possible,” Castiel says, authoritative despite tripping internally on the change in Jack’s name. “We are Heaven, the one realm of endless opportunity. Surely we will find a way.”

The chorus shifts uncomfortably, already filled with doubt. Castiel recognizes that feeling; he knows how it eats through the insides of every creature, tempting it to give in without making an attempt.

He feels it too, but—

Jack believes they are capable of doing this.

Castiel chooses to believe him too.

* * *

The angels draft innumerous ways of creating what their Creator asks them to do. They spend eternal, instantaneous moments cycling through all the possible ways they can open the kingdom of heaven to every one of its denizens simultaneously; their plans move in tandem with all of the ways they might also fail.

Castiel wonders, after the third such endless, instant of communion, whether a perfect answer is even possible. Should perfection be sought in heaven? Human beings, after all, are perfect in their imperfections.

Castiel excuses himself from the chorus, stating, “I wish to gather insight from other sources.” With a flap of his wings, he seeks out those humans who have already subverted the construct of heaven once before.

It takes a short eternity to locate the Roadhouse occupied by Ellen Harvelle and her pack of miscreants, the few hunters she cared for from her time on Earth gathered within the rundown tavern’s walls. Ash has done an excellent job warding them from Heaven’s eyes, but Castiel knows what he is looking for.

Pamela and Jo startle at his abrupt appearance, wary and ready for a fight, but Castiel holds up his hands in peace, asking plaintively, “I need your help.”

They push two tables together; Ellen brings out a line of shots. Castiel humours them by taking his drinks at the same time as the rest of them, knowing that as an archangel there is even less likelihood that he will feel the alcohol’s effects.

“So what kind of problems do you all encounter, occupying this same space?” Castiel asks the collective, and Pamela and Jo jump in right away about the boredom and the in-fighting, the trouble of wanting to be alone whenever the rest of their collective clamours for attention. Castiel then presses them for what solutions they would make.

“It’s all about the rules,” Ash says, after his fourth beer and Castiel’s eighth, the two of them moving away from the table, talking close on a couch the moment Jo grew bored and turned the music in the room up far too loud. “Back on Earth, people could do whatever they want, same as here. But we had rules. Restrictions. There were limitations of geography, of time. Social constructs, especially—people have a way of keeping each other in line.”

“And now that you’re in heaven,” Castiel supplies, “you don’t necessarily have to follow the same rules.”

“Bingo,” Ash says, pointing with his beer. “Not everybody getting up here are saints, y’know? We’re people. We fuck up; we obsess. We want to talk to people who hate our guts, and we yell at people who love us because we get frustrated. If you take us out of our perfect little memory loops, we start making mistakes again.”

“Do you want to... “ Castiel pauses, mulling. “But Heaven must allow you to continue making mistakes.”

“Right,” Ash agrees. “But it’s gotta keep us from harming ourselves and others too.”

Pamela wanders over with a beer in hand, her free hand skirting over table tops until she finds the couch. She flops down on the cushion beside Castiel, landing uncomfortably close. “He’s right,” she says, flattening her hand on Castiel’s chest. “Take right now. You don’t like me touching you like this, do you?”

“No,” Castiel admits, bashful. “We’re not friendly enough for it.”

“You’re telling me.” Pamela snorts, taking back her hand. “The way I see it, there’s gotta be a way for Heaven to guard us from shit like that getting carried away.”

“Yeah, man. It’s like good sex,” Ash says, giddy. “Everybody involved has gotta want to get down and dirty, otherwise the whole situation blows.”

“Right,” Pamela says. ”That’s how it should be. It shouldn’t matter how much I wanna sit in your lap—” she guffaws loudly, briefly losing herself “—not that I want to. But it shouldn’t happen. Both people should want to be doing their best.”

“Dude,” Ash says, sitting up excited in his seat. “What’s the realm of possibility we’re dealing with here? Can Heaven monitor all parties involved in an interaction? Like, can it get some sense of what they want and what they don’t, and bridge or block that gap?”

“So if Pamela wants to touch me,” Castiel says, “and I don’t want her to…”

“I guess,” Pamela says, “a little voice reminds me maybe you don’t want me doing that?”

Castiel stares at her. “Would you _want_ to be reminded, every time you did something another person disliked?”

“No fucking way,” Pamela says, laughing.

Castiel breathes relief; he dislikes the idea too.

“And that’s just the tip of the iceberg,” Ash says, gesturing wildly with his beer. “Human beings are messy. Our relationships are messy. Take my mother, for example—I love her, God rest her, but there is _no fucking way_ I’m hanging out with her for eternity. She needs to stay in her corner, me in mine, for me to be happy.”

“But does that make her happy?” Pamela posits. “If you’re both in heaven, but she can’t see you, is she really experiencing paradise?”

Castiel sighs. “This is very complicated.”

“Hate to say it, but yeah.” Pamela slaps a hand down on Castiel’s shoulder, grinning. “Sorry, buddy, but if you’re fixing heaven, you have your work cut out for you.”

Privately, Castiel wishes he doesn’t so wholeheartedly agree.

* * *

Castiel leaves the Roadhouse hours later, only mildly tipsy on his wings. He scours the halls, seeking out an old comfort in the form of a favoured private heaven—a Grecian woman whose modest home looks out on the blue Mediterranean, the sun baking the coastal sand.

Tucking himself away from her attention, Castiel perches on the edge of a salt-limned dock, between a flat pole fishing rod and a tangle of fishing nets. His hands fold together as he stares down at the sparkling blue water, receding with the low tide. He has much to think about.

The nature of humanity is so contrary within a single person, let alone in the species as a whole. How is Castiel supposed to bring one hundred-billion souls together to live in harmony? In what manner could two hundred-thousand years of history be woven into a single, unbroken cloth?

The memory of a voice curls through him, brushing fondly up his back.

_We're humans. And when humans want something really, really bad... we lie._

The corner of his mouth curves upward; Castiel touches the knot in his tie, buried against the hollow of his throat. His hand rests there warmly, a placeholder for the one he wishes it could be. “Dean,” he murmurs, “what would you have me do? What is it that humanity truly wants from life?”

 _You know what's real? People. Families._ That's _real._

Castiel holds his breath and squeezes closed his eyes, waiting for the ache he feels to pass, that longing for everything he left behind on earth clenching his heart like a fist.

_I'll take the pain, and the guilt—It's a lot better than being some Stepford bitch in paradise._

Slowly, a thought solidifies, forming some small kernel of belief. Castiel’s back straightens, his face lifting to the warmth of the sun, eyes squinted against the blue. “Maybe you’re right, Dean. We're all just making it up as we go. Maybe it’s okay if Heaven does the same.”

* * *

Castiel is still pondering the best solution even before their first trial fails.

The angels set aside a subsection of heaven, drawing down the walls and opening the doors to a select few humans. The hallways disappear, replaced by a world crafted without hardship, molded by the angels into the form of a family home shared for generations by the chosen few.

The trial goes well, for the most part. Whatever the humans want, Heaven responds to promptly, giving them what they seek. And the people are happy—initially. They delight in Heaven’s receptiveness to their every whim, how they are given precisely whatever their heart longs for in the moment: ice cream that never melts and perfect summer evenings; beloved family pets and vacation scenery; radios that play only their favourite songs.

But after a while, some of the humans grow bored by the constant perfection. Petty fights break out over what the backyard ought to look like. One human grows tired of the constant companionship and locks himself away so wholly that the angels whisk him back to his private heaven. The remaining humans then fuss over his absence, struggling to enjoy the peaks of human experience happening back to back without end.

Castiel can sense the pride in Naomi and the others for their accomplishment, the flaws in this world skirted carefully over in favour of claiming a job well done.

But it is clear to Castiel that this isn’t the final solution. What they have built will not be enough to satisfy the entire world.

* * *

The failures of the trial haunt Castiel for eternities thereafter. He sequesters himself in a quiet corner of what once was the throne room and is now a lush garden, the plant life growing wildly as far as the eye can see.

Since Jack remade the space into something vibrant, Castiel comes here whenever he needs to think; the garden helps him feel close to his son, even though he is seldom here.

Something about the scent of honeysuckle and the rustle of tall grass also makes him think of Kansas. Of Dean, and the family Castiel has made there.

Anael approaches Castiel here in his earthy solitude, carrying a designer bag and wearing expensive shoes. She crosses her arms and smiles at him ruefully, chin tilted down, watching where Castiel is scratching Enochian into the dirt.

“Word on the grapevine is you’re making big changes up here,” Anael says, giving her best careless shrug. Tossing her hair from her face, she announces airily, “I have ideas. I want in.”

Castiel lifts his chin, feeling the soft breeze of the garden tousling his hair. He motions to Anael with his wooden stick, gesturing toward the dirt. “Join me, please.”

Sighing heavily, Anael removes her luxury coat and spreads it out like a blanket, sitting beside him on the soft grass.

* * *

For their next trial, Castiel summons the entire remaining host to support their second attempt at opening up heaven. Creating something new takes vastly more effort than replicating memories, and so he requires all their strength, their grace, to manifest the nuanced possibilities that this new kingdom hopes to achieve.

The humans from the last test have been ushered back to their private heavens. For this one, Castiel chose people he could count on to subvert their attempts at perfection.

“You’re gonna be sorry you asked for that,” Bobby tells him, looking over his shoulder at Ellen and the rest.

“I hope so,” Castiel answers honestly. “I want to make what’s best for humanity. We won’t get there without making mistakes.”

With Bobby and Ellen, Ash and Jo and Pamela all gathered, Castiel and his chorus summon the new version of heaven around them, weaving a world advised by what all its inhabitants wish for it to be.

The form of this heaven takes some time to settle. While Ellen is satisfied with summoning a new version of the Roadhouse, Bobby and Pamela’s minds go immediately to their respective homes as their places of comfort. What was one building quickly transforms into three, bunched close like rowhouses before settling out, spreading across a stretch of prairie that could be mistaken for South Dakota as easily as Nebraska.

The angels struggle to support the abrupt changes in environment—even Castiel feels sweat building on his brow as Jo and Ash’s versions of heaven begin to bud from what the first three had made. Many of his brethren are winded before the trial is even midway through.

But it works: Jo finds herself in a modest lakefront cottage a half mile down from her mother, and spends her spare time in the Roadhouse much the same as she did before. When enough time passes that Ellen seems to irritate her, a lush fence of poplars and firs grows between the two abodes; Jo returns to her cottage and refuses to come out until she can finish sulking in peace.

Unable to visit her daughter, Ellen hikes her way over to Bobby’s, and the two of them complain and converse until night falls and the trees between her and her daughter have faded again.

“I wanted to call her,” Ellen admits, when Castiel quizzes her after. “Lord knows I hate it when Jo is mad at me. But something made me—something in me decided it was better not to bug her. I felt like I ought to wait for her to come to me.”

Castiel tilts his head, scrutinizing. “Was that feeling too intrusive? Did you trust that it came from you?”

“Did it?” Ellen asks, frowning. “I don’t like it if it didn’t.”

“It was your decision, ultimately,” Castiel says carefully. “But we’re trying to offer a world that helps people be their best. Part of that is helping them avoid actions that would upset others. So Heaven offers you small… suggestions. To assist however it can.”

Ellen crosses her arms, frowning harder. “I’ll be real with you, Cas: I don’t like it. I don’t like the idea of the world nudging me away from the rough edges. I ought to be able to screw up doing what I think is best.”

“Even if it hurts your daughter?”

Ellen chews her cheek. “You can’t get through life—a _real_ life—without hurting other people. It happens. Part of what makes us human is having to make amends.”

Castiel knows that necessity better than any angel. He nods sagely, relieved by her confirmation. “Thank you, Ellen. We’ll try again with something else.”

“Please do,” Ellen says archly. “I don’t need Heaven parenting me into being on my best behavior.”

* * *

When the garden and the private heavens aren’t enough to soothe him, Castiel likes to stand before the gates of heaven and debate whether he should walk through.

Jack has given express orders that the angels are to remain in heaven—that the age of celestial interference is over—but... Castiel suspects he might be the lone exception to this rule. That if he were to return to Earth and walk among them, hidden, Jack might not be too upset.

It is tempting too often, to slip down to Earth, to cloak himself in a separate wavelength of the universe, hidden to the human eye. But belief alone is not enough to make Castiel break his vow.

So Castiel closes his eyes and imagines Kansas. Lebanon. A parcel of land far from the outskirts of town. An old power plant that hides priceless secrets underground.

He imagines Dean and Sam inside the bunker, and by imagining it Castiel can sense them the same way he can sense the birds and crickets and wildgrass thrumming around his mind, the radiant cacophony of _life_ teeming in every speck of the earth and sky.

In the bunker, Castiel imagines Dean making breakfast. Dean cleaning his room; his car. Dean whistling in the shower and Dean watching old movies; Dean eating pizza as he idly browses the internet.

Dean washing his face. Brushing his teeth. Changing his shirt and crawling into bed.

Dean resting peacefully, the idea alone enough to bring Castiel peace.

Dean, happy. Just happy.

Castiel opens his eyes and smiles at the gates before quietly walking away.

The small, soft joys of life are precisely what he must bring into heaven. Castiel mustn’t forget the details. If heaven someday captures even a fraction of the unbridled joy residing in his heart, Castiel will count himself an accomplished man.

* * *

In the garden that once was the throne room, Castiel sits in his favoured spot, contemplating. With his courage summoned, he bows his head and prays.

Time does not exist in heaven, and so no time at all passes before his son arrives.

“What is it?” Jack asks, crouching down beside Castiel, among the blooming peonies.

Castiel sighs, scratching his stick through the dirt. He has gone over the structure repeatedly, but with heaven’s current limitations, no greater solution can be found. “We don’t have enough angels to pursue my ideas of heaven. To have a dynamic world that responds to the depths and nuance of the human experience… There are too few of my kind left to support it.”

Jack looks over the figures drawn into the earth. He drags his fingers through a few of the symbols, tightening the equations in ways Castiel did not expect. “Does that help?”

Castiel winces. “Not enough. To sustain the kind of flexibility we’re striving for, we would need the entire host back. In full form.”

The full host. A return to life for all of his fallen brethren.

How many of his siblings are dead by his hand?

No. Castiel cannot afford to dwell on it; he’ll lose himself if he does.

“Is it possible,” Castiel begins carefully, “that you could lend us your strength to sustain our new heaven? With your power, we could do anything.”

“It’s possible,” Jack says, after a moment. “But I don’t want you to need me. I want Heaven to be a place that outlasts God themself.”

Castiel startles at the thought. Does Jack have something planned by keeping himself outside the equation? Castiel asks, “Is there a way we can gather more angels?”

“There is,” Jack says, nodding. He looks to Castiel. “You may go to the Empty. Return with as many of its occupants as you like.”

The thought of seeing the Shadow again sends shivers through Castiel’s wings. “Jack, are you sure you wouldn’t… like to do that yourself?”

Jack smiles fondly. “I think you need to, Cas. You’ll need to let go of those fears.”

“I’m not afraid of it,” Castiel says stiffly.

“No,” Jack agrees. “Not in the way that you’re thinking. But still—I ask this of you.”

Castiel sighs, his feathers bristling. “As you command.”

* * *

The Empty is a cold, cavernous place made hollow by aeons of neglect, and its Shadow is a fretful thing when Castiel arrives.

It continues to wear the face of Meg, the demon, and a part of Castiel pangs to see her so distressed. But then the Shadow catches sight of Castiel and summarily recoils from him, fear flickering through its expression before being pushed aside by rage.

Castiel holds his ground despite how his wings shudder. He allows the Shadow to push its face up to his face, its teeth bared against his neck.

“I should have killed you,” it says in Meg’s trembling voice. “I should have shoved you so far into sleep that you suffocated on your every breath.”

Castiel shuts his eyes against the Shadow’s encroachment, swallowing thickly. Its teeth graze the tendons in his neck. “I’m here to help you,” he says quietly, and the Shadow laughs. And laughs. And laughs.

“Your help?” it spits out, rocking back on its heels. “ _Your_ help? You, who woke me up—you, who made a mess of everything inside me, who made it _loud_ — _you_ wish to clean this up?”

The Shadow casts its hand over the space around them, and although Castiel does not see anything in the darkness, he senses the grace and warped souls hiding in its depths.

“Yes,” Castiel says, caught in this throat. “Let me take them away. Let us leave you be.”

The Shadow’s expression twists rapidly, Meg’s features falling with some form of disbelief. “You can’t,” it spits out instinctively. “They’re mine. You can’t have them.”

“Would you rather it be quiet, or would you rather keep them here? You can’t have both.”

Crossing its arms, the Shadow stares off in middle distance. Castiel has a moment to wonder whether it is spiteful enough to deny Castiel’s request.

“Which ones would you steal from me,” the Shadow grumbles eventually.

Dutifully, Castiel recites the names of every angel he or Dean or Sam have unjustly killed.

And then he lists some more.

The Shadow throws itself around, feet stomping, head sulking. But eventually it does as Castiel requests.

* * *

In heaven, the once-empty halls teem with life the likes of which has not been seen in over a decade.

Castiel oversees the transition of the resurrected angels back into the body of the host. He meets with each angel one-on-one, talking with them in his place inside the garden. Sometimes Jack is there, making plans in the shade of a distant willow tree; more often than not, Castiel is alone with these angels who either had betrayed him, or whom Castiel had betrayed.

“Uriel,” Castiel says in an endless moment, his brother sitting beside him on a stone bench overlooking a lapping pond. “I am so sorry for how things ended between us.”

Uriel sighs, undoing the button at the base of his suit jacket. He stares out at the water with an unreadable expression. Castiel longs to know his mind again.

“It felt inevitable,” Uriel says—immediately or eventually, Castiel cannot clearly tell. “That Lucifer would rise. That humanity would fall. I felt—it was my duty to see through the apocalypse. It was the best course of action to take. To bring our Father back.”

“I understand,” says Castiel, thinking of the other world’s Michael, who believed the same. “Our Father—Chuck made it necessary to guess at his true intentions. But now we no longer have to guess. In his absence, we are again honorbound to watch over his creations.”

“This new God,” Uriel says slowly, contemptuous. “How can we trust he is any better than the old one?”

“I know him,” Castiel says. “Jack is a good man. He loves all of creation the way it should be loved.”

Uriel exhales heavily. Another long, intermediate moment stretches before he speaks again. “If God is here, then I am happy to know my purpose again. I will do as you ask.”

“Thank you, Uriel,” Castiel says, smiling softly.

Uriel gives him a shrewd once-over, then places a warm hand on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezing, before he stands.

* * *

Castiel’s reunions with the other angels go much the same. Raphael and he have bad blood that requires instantaneous aeons to navigate and bloodlet. With Dumah, Castiel apologizes for having been placed in the situation where he had to take her life. Then Anna, Hester, Hannah—Castiel spends time with each of them, as long as necessary to make amends.

Then it comes time for Castiel to meet with the last of the Empty’s new arrivals. Castiel motions her over to his favourite place in the garden, at the bare patch of earth tucked between the peonies.

Ruby seems uncomfortable with the trappings of heaven, as mundane as her surroundings are in the garden. She tugs at the sleeves of her leather jacket and plops down on the ground, leaning her elbows on her crossed legs. Her shoulders are tense, her gaze cast asunder. “Don’t really know what I’m doing here, Cas.”

Castiel takes up the thin wooden stick he likes to use for drawing, toying with it between both hands. “You asked me to help you escape the Empty. I kept my promise. That’s it.”

“I get that,” Ruby deadpans. “Except, why am I _here_ —in heaven?” She scoffs. “If there’s one place I’m not meant to be, this is it.”

“Maybe once,” Castiel agrees. “But you should have also never been made a demon, Ruby. No human deserves that. And now that Chuck is gone, we are going to make things right between Heaven and Hell.”

Ruby hunkers down over her crossed legs. “What do you need?”

“I have some demon friends I’d like to save,” Castiel says. “And I am hoping you can help me work out how to do that.”

Ruby snorts. “So, what? You need a way to demon-proof your new heaven?”

“No,” Castiel says carefully. “I need you for something more revolutionary.”

Ruby eyes him skeptically, but with a wave of her hand he begins to sketch an idea into the freshly tilled earth, a new scheme unfolding as Castiel begins to speak.

* * *

Some time later—Heaven does not experience time as it passes on Earth, so he cannot be certain when—Castiel catches snippets of another man’s voice echoing in his ears.

It hasn’t happened often; in the millennia in which Castiel has lived, there have been only a handful of humans who have known how to call him by name.

It is a prayer. One meant solely for him.

Castiel bolts upright where he is sitting; he excuses himself from the choir, the other angels continuing their work without interruption. He slips down a cobblestone road where the hallways crumble, the garden spilling out from the old throne room.

Closing his eyes, Castiel attunes his entire being to the prayer being given.

_Cas, please. I’m sorry—I should have—I’m sorry. Cas, Cas—_

Castiel breathes aloud, “Dean.”

Every fiber in his being refuses to stay away.

Castiel runs to the gates of heaven. Glancing around, he hesitates only a moment before stepping through it, exiting into an unremarkable playground somewhere on the Earth. After a moment adjusting to his new bearings, Castiel hones in on the source of the prayer; in a single flap of his wings, he arrives at Dean’s location.

Outside the bunker, the prairie thrums with life precisely as it does in his dreams.

Castiel aches with the entirety of it all. He has tried hard, so hard, to remain focused on his purpose in heaven, but it has taken all of his strength and more not to think about Dean in every second, every moment, every day. He longs to see Dean again, longs to hear his voice. His laughter. It is unfair to be kept away from Dean.

But Castiel must respect Jack’s wishes. And so when he enters into Dean’s darkened bedroom, Castiel does so while remaining hidden from human sight.

Dean is in bed, passing a fitful evening tossing and turning in his sleep. There is a dog softly snoring at the foot of his bed. The bedsheets are torn out from the mattress, and the rest of his room is a similar disaster, a garbage pile made of empty beers and pizza boxes. The floor is littered with lumps of unwashed clothes. Uneaten kibble is sprayed around a pair of silver bowls set out for the dog.

Dean himself has his face buried in his pillows, clutching for dear life at the bundles of fabric swept into his arms. The dog whimpers. Dean mumbles something, muscles twitching. Castiel senses his longing like a caress against his skin.

“Oh, Dean,” Castiel says sadly, although no one can hear him. He approaches the side of the bed and sits down carefully, two fingers extended.

Castiel touches Dean’s brow, and in an instant enters into Dean’s dream.

He is back in the dungeon, among the bookshelves and boxes. A bloody sigil drips from the back of the archive door. Castiel’s palm stings with the phantom memory, fingers flexing with the tacky feel of dried blood.

He finds Dean in the back corner, situated on the floor, back against the cold concrete wall. Dean is hunched over, his palms pressed to his eyes. A shallow noise shakes loose from him, shuddering with his breaths.

Castiel cannot stand to see Dean crying. He approaches quietly, kneeling down. He sets a hand to the back of Dean’s head and kisses the row of his knuckles.

Dean drops his hands, blinking. He chokes back a low sound, pain grasping thickly at his throat. “Cas? Is that really you?”

Castiel isn’t sure what he can admit to without giving too much away. He settles for answering, “I’m here, Dean. It’s me.” Then, gently: “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Dean curses, his eyes squeezing shut. Words burst out of him, begging to be said. “I can’t do it. I just can’t. This life ain’t made for guys like me. I keep telling Sam I’m fine, keep telling myself I can make it, but—” His breath comes out shaky, his eyes watering again. “I don’t want to do it without you. None of it. I need you.”

Dean’s eyes close as he abruptly shatters, shaking loose in a way he seldom allows himself to experience in real life.

Castiel holds him as he crumbles. He runs soothing fingers through Dean’s hair and holds him, arms wrapped tight around him, protective and fierce.

“You can though,” Castiel murmurs into Dean’s hair, when the worst of Dean’s pain has abated.

Dean turns away, making a face.

“No, Dean—listen to me. It’s hard. I know it’s hard. Every moment I’m not with you, I’m—” Castiel inhales sharply, his eyes squeezing shut. “But you are strong, Dean. So strong. And you are worthy of the best life has to offer. Every last drop of goodness, of hope and laughter and joy on this planet—you deserve it. A man as kind, and caring, and selfless as you…”

Gently, Castiel coaxes Dean to look up at him through tear-blurred eyes. He smiles at Dean, cradling his head in his hands, and says, solemn, “The world is lucky to have you. Do not doubt that for one second. ”

Shakily, Dean inhales. He shuts his eyes, his brow tipping forward. Castiel touches their foreheads together, supporting Dean as he recovers.

“I should’ve said something to you,” Dean croaks out, scarcely loud enough to hear. “Before it took you. I would have. I meant to. I just—” Dean swallows, his throat clicking. “I didn’t know how quickly you’d be gone.”

“I know,” Castiel says fondly. “I believe you. And you can say everything you need to say the next time we meet. If you still want to. Because we will, Dean. We _will_ see each other again.”

“You promise?” Dean murmurs.

Castiel nods. “I swear.”

Dean takes a sharp breath in through his nose. Behind his eyes, Castiel can see a decision being made.

Dean’s gaze drops to half-mast, his lips parting. He leans in to Castiel—

—who softly turns his mouth away.

Dean exhales roughly. “Cas, I—”

“When we meet again,” Castiel reminds him, heart thumping erratically. “If you still want to. I want—I _need_ our first kiss to be real.”

Saying it aloud sends an eruption of joy through Castiel, the thought alone enough to sustain him for a thousand years.

Dean sighs, nodding his agreement. Castiel relaxes his hold, and helps Dean stand upright.

The dungeon is gone from around them, transformed with the logic of a dream. They are standing on the edge of the gravel road leading to the bunker. Blue skies above them; birdsong carries on the warm breeze surrounding them. The same place Castiel imagines every time his homesickness for Earth strikes.

“I’ll see you again,” Castiel vows, touching Dean’s face.

Dean melts into his palm, his eyes closed.

With his heart breaking, Castiel slips away.

* * *

A larger trial is run with the help of Ellen’s humans. The rejuvenated host gathers to support it.

Castiel asks each of Ellen’s people to list every person they knew in life—as many of them as they could remember. On good terms or bad, close or distant relations; every name is needed, no matter how weak their acquaintanceship might be. He and the angels then gather up all the listed souls into a newly-crafted heaven, one scaled more massive than had ever been attempted before.

The new heaven is exponentially more complicated than any prior attempt, but with the full host and Jack’s adjusted calculations, the space-time unfolds without a single glitch. Hundreds of people come into contact with each other, some for the first time.

Personalities mesh and clash. New friendships are formed; others, strained. Ellen’s Roadhouse is reformed, her husband Bill smiling at her side. Pamela and Bobby and Ash and Jo design neighbourhoods near where the Roadhouse has been constructed and put their dwellings inside them. Entire homes and cities and parks wink in and out of existence as the people within them cycle through what they believe heaven ought to be.

Castiel keeps his eye specifically on the core five humans around which they have built this web. When Pamela forms a friendship with an acquaintance that somehow hurts Ash’s feelings, Castiel hones in on Heaven’s programming in this instance, seeing how the fabric of their new reality deals with its conflicting input regarding how Pamela and Ash seek to interact. The careful nudging previously in place has been all but silenced, leaving the humans to handle their troubles as they wish.

After the trial, Castiel asks, “Did it feel like you were wholly in control?”

“I mean, were we?” Pamela opted to be sighted today, and so she glances sidelong at Ash, who seems prickly yet for no discernable reason.

“For the most part,” Castiel replies. “There are—precautions in place, in case people come up with conflicting ideas about what would make them happy.”

Beside him, Anael explains, “We’re mostly looking at what you _don’t_ want to happen, and programming to avoid that.”

“So if I say I don’t want Pam dating my high school best friend,” Ash grouses, “doesn’t that mean it should’ve stopped?”

“Their relationship is not yours to end,” Castiel replies. “You could choose to no longer associate with either of them, but that does not stop their choice to continue seeing each other.”

“Would you like us to increase the background ambience of calm and forgetfulness? We could do that, if you like. Make your mind wander away from those thoughts that are painful,” says Anael, and if it weren’t for the knowledge of what she is doing by bringing it to attention, Castiel would have pulled her aside for a clipped conversation about boundaries on the subject.

Ash frowns. “You can do that?”

“We can,” Castiel answers, before quickly adding, “though we would rather not.”

“But we could change our programming to intervene,” Anael adds. “If you really want us to. Put in a quick call and boom, one of the host will be there.”

“So, like, if I sent up a prayer asking for guidance, y’all would actually respond?”

Castiel exchanges a look with Anael, bowing his head so she may proceed. “We are willing to do that, yes. If a human truly asks us for guidance, then we’ll give it.”

Ash’s nose wrinkles. “I’ll have to think about that. Not sure if I like it.”

Castiel says, “Let us know once your feelings on the matter have settled.”

With a nod, an angel offside ushers Pamela and Ash outside the room, and Castiel’s interviews proceed with the entry of the next humans.

They are getting closer; Castiel can sense it. A unified heaven may be possible yet.

* * *

Disaster strikes in the midst of expanding the current iteration of heaven—now involving hundreds of thousands of humans, all crafting their own micro-versions of happiness.

Castiel is summoned by Miriam and Hester to review the state of private torture one human has inflicted upon herself.

“She just… stays like this,” Miriam says, frowning at the human, huddled alone in a dark room without doors or windows. “She doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep. She longs for her friends to come find her, but she has no way of letting them in.”

“How did this happen?” Castiel asks, surveying the gathered angels, hidden from the human’s view.

A couple glance skeptically at each other. Hester answers eventually, “It became all that she wanted. What she was obsessed with.”

Indra asks, “How do we make her leave?”

An angel near the back speaks out. “We should ask God to change the rules for entry into heaven, to remove such troublemakers. Someone so broken should not be allowed in.”

“She is not broken,” Castiel growls. “The conditions for entry will _never_ exclude someone for the manner in which they were created. Every human is worthy of dignity.”

“Then we should go back to how it was,” Phanuel complains. “The private heavens. This is so much more work than it used to be. Why can’t we just manufacture a happy memory for each human and leave them to it?”

“Because those aren’t a real happiness,” Anael says, clipped.

Archly, Castiel adds, “But more than that: we are Heaven. It is our duty to protect humanity. To support them when times are difficult. We are their hope, their help; we do not leave them to suffer.”

The host must embrace the fact that heaven’s new form will always need their intervention; it will never be as hands-off as the first version Chuck had made.

Castiel turns to Anael. “Seek an intervention with the human. Who among us can help her?”

Anael reviews a disappointingly short list of angels. “Akobel, I suppose. He’s well-suited toward compassion.”

Castiel approves the order, and the chorus of angels disburses; Akobel dispatches into the human’s heaven, appearing in his corporeal form.

Castiel watches from where he is hidden, reviewing the woman’s response to the arrival of an angel. Time passes in instants and eternities. Anael hangs by Castiel’s side, likewise watching Akobel allow the human to set boundaries regarding her heartbreak; he merely waits in hopes she might someday air her grievances, encouraging her to approach him at her own pace.

“This is going to keep happening,” Anael murmurs. “We can’t give humans free will and also expect them to always embrace what’s good for them. Some of them have never learned how to pursue happiness for themselves. They’re going to fuck up.”

The woman, upon speaking aloud the fears that brought her to her current state, bursts into tears. Akobel extends his arms and folds the woman inside his wings, holding her as she cries.

“Yes,” Castiel replies. “And that’s okay. True happiness cannot happen unless choice is involved.” He sighs, thinking of how few of his kind seem prepared for a more hands-on approach in heaven. “Once this woman recovers, see if Akobel would be willing to teach more of our siblings how to handle humanity with empathy. We need the entire host to understand that Heaven will sometimes fail—and that we also can recover.”

“You want every angel to accept that they and Heaven are imperfect?” Anael raises an eyebrow. “How blasphemous of you, Castiel.”

Castiel returns her small smile, thinking of Jack. “Perfection was blasphemy in the first place.”

* * *

Castiel is in the process of designing a heaven for a mesolithic human when he feels his world tear open at the seams.

Dean is hurt. Gravely. He—

It’s too _soon_. A hundred years could have passed on earth and it would still be too soon for Dean to—

If he was truly—

Panic knives through the very essence of Castiel’s being. His wings carry him to the gates of heaven before he has even spared a moment to think. Castiel marches forward, preparing his wings, summoning his healing—

—when Jack appears abruptly in the hall before him.

“Cas,” Jack begins calmly, his arms open, blocking, even as Castiel attempts to push him aside.

“Let me through,” Castiel growls. “If it’s Dean, let me through—”

He struggles against Jack’s grip but Jack is unmoving, steadfast in his way.

“Cas,” Jack says. “We do not interfere—”

“Whatever happened, I can undo it. He doesn’t need to die—he’s _not going to_ —”

“ _Castiel_ ,” Jack says, voice raised.

Castiel freezes. His arms fall limp at his sides.

“It is his time,” Jack says, gentle. “You have to let him pass.”

 _But it’s too soon_ , Castiel thinks frantically. _Too random. Dean can’t—he deserves so much more than this. He has so much more life left to live_.

“He was your father as much as I was,” Castiel rasps, voice gritty with anger.

“I know,” Jack says. For once, his expression softens with something akin to regret; Castiel’s heart breaks. “I’m so sorry, Cas. But we can no longer interfere in these things. There’s no way to save one without wanting to save everyone.”

Castiel hates the sorrow in Jack’s voice almost as much as he hates what is happening to Dean, down on earth—Dean’s fear and his sorrow so palpably bright, Castiel feels it like a sunburn singeing his skin.

He feels the flutter of Dean’s heartbeat, up until it fades away.

* * *

After...

Jack steps aside, and in an instant Castiel has fled from heaven, carried by wings of despair.

He wants to remember Dean alive on Earth and so he goes back to the home he knows. Back to the road leading to the bunker.

The birds seem quieter. The grass, lifeless. The sky grey.

It’s not his home any longer.

Castiel spreads his wings, taking flight.

The clouds open to the fall of rain.

* * *

Dean’s funeral is an achingly small affair, arranged for Sam alone. It’s the only reason Castiel can think of why the rest of their loved ones are not present; Sam has nursed his grief in private, his heart cradled in the loss that has befallen him.

Castiel watches the flames catch on on the pyre, his eyes stinging.

The wood crackles. Smoke builds. The white cloth wrapped around Dean’s body begins to turn black.

It’s too small. All of it.

Too small for the life Dean contained.

* * *

He goes back in time.

Back to the night Dean was born.

Back to the night he first died.

Back to the barn where they first met.

He revisits the night Dean took him to a brothel, Castiel himself petrified by the prospect of Dean leaving his side without yet comprehending why.

He revisits Purgatory. The year spent on the run with only Dean’s prayers for company.

He revisits Dean kicking him out of the bunker, this time capable of feeling the remorse and regret rolling off Dean in waves.

Dean never wanted him to go. He never has.

He revisits the Braeden family home, watching himself watch Dean rake leaves. Thinking of the remorse and regret he felt in turning to Crowley for help instead of Dean.

_Did I know then that I loved him?_

_How could I ever have not known that love?_

He revisits the reservoir, observing his past self walk into the water. Observing Dean fish his sodden trench coat from the shoreline, folding it hand over hand, cursing Castiel. He then revisits the next time he died by a reaper’s blade, watching Dean clutching at him, holding his face.

He visits the last time he died in front of Dean, stabbed in the back by Lucifer. He sees Dean cry out, falling to his knees. Sees Dean close in on himself and crumble, punching walls. Praying. Sees Dean suck in a shaky breath as he alone prepares Castiel’s body for the pyre.

He lingers in this timeline, unfamiliar with its contents. He learns for the first time how Dean suffered in his absence. How Dean drank, how he never slept. How he took his grief out on Jack.

And he learns how Dean died, on some run of the mill ghost hunt, a needle plunged to stop his heart inside his chest.

He thinks of how close he came to missing Dean, calling him from a payphone only a couple hours later. This old version of himself so completely unaware how close Dean came to giving up for good.

Castiel cannot avoid reality any longer.

He will not lose Dean again.

* * *

Back in heaven, in his own time, Castiel makes one final stop on his way to finding Dean.

This section of the new heaven has been well-trod since the trials began. Castiel thinks he has seen every iteration of the Roadhouse since its conception; he knows the neighborhood like the back of his hand.

The Winchester family home is typically located down the road from Bobby’s and the Harvelle’s. Today, a second cabin has been crafted a quarter-mile out from the family homestead, with a small forest sprouting between.

Castiel knocks on the cabin door to find Mary, snug in an oversized cardigan, alone for now. Taking some time away from John, now that their missing histories have been exchanged. She smiles with Castiel when she sees him, beaming as she tries to usher him inside.

But Castiel politely declines. “I’m sorry, but I won’t bother you long. I just…”

Mary leans against the door frame, waiting patiently for him to find his words.

It’s hard to know why it frightens him so, but Castiel summons the courage to ask, “Is it—good enough? This heaven? Will he be happy with it?”

Mary’s smile widens knowingly. “It’s perfect, Cas. And yes—” she holds up a hand, cutting him off “—before you ask: Dean loves it. He’s been waiting for you. Impatiently,” she adds, a twinkle in her eye. “Though he’d never let you know that.”

He swallows thickly, eyes damp. “Do you know where he is now?”

Mary’s grin turns mischievous. “Just look for Baby. You’ll know where he is.”

Castiel’s nerves settle; he matches her grin. “Thank you, Mary.”

“Bring him by sometime,” she calls after him as he departs. “You’re welcome to dinner anytime.”

Castiel waves back at her before squaring his shoulders, leaving with a flap of his wings.

* * *

He finds Dean at a salvage yard, of all places, set far beyond the outskirts of town. Sunset is taking place in this fragment of heaven, the horizon a peachy summer hue skimming off a lakefront not far from the road that brought Castiel here.

Dean is beneath the open hood of the Impala, ratcheting some mechanical fixture in place. He wears a dark t-shirt stained at the neckline and pits of his arms, his flannel shirt slung low around the waist of his jeans. He wipes his brow of sweat, smudging grease from the pad of his thumb, and Castiel could watch him like this for eternity. Dean, golden-limned and cast in shadow, brow furrowed, muscles flexing as he works.

But Castiel has dawdled long enough on this reunion. He sheds his hiding place among the brush, stepping out into the light.

It doesn’t take long for Dean to sense that someone is beside him. He glances over, shoulders hunched, hands set on the engine frame. The corner of his mouth hooks into a small grin. “Cas.”

“Dean,” Castiel replies, keeping his distance—for them, at least; more than an arm’s reach away.

Dean steps back from the Impala, gesturing with a torque wrench. “Which one of you decided shit still broke down in heaven?”

“It doesn’t have to, if you don’t want it to. But some people like to fix things.” Castiel’s mouth slants upward. “When I explained this to the host, there was almost a mutiny.”

Dean laughs a little. He drops the wrench into a tool box and unties his flannel shirt, using one of the sleeves to mop sweat from his brow. The shirt gets balled up; his back straightens, body stiff.

“So.” Dean looks at his hands; the ground. “You stood me up.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Castiel shifts uncomfortably, hesitant what more he could say that would improve the situation. “I was—afraid to see you again.”

Afraid that Dean wouldn’t want to see him, after the confession Castiel made.

Afraid that the Dean in dreams and the Dean in reality are two very different people, and the one standing before him might not admit to feeling the same way.

Afraid that Dean might have changed without him. Changed into someone who doesn’t need him anymore.

Quietly, Castiel asks, “Do you want to go back to Earth?” Then, quickly: “I could resurrect you. Jack might not be happy about it, but—” _But it’s too soon for you to die. You deserve so much more time._ Castiel swallows against the fear building in his chest. “If you want it, I will do it.”

The hood of the Impala bangs shut. Dean drops his flannel onto the gleaming metal, brassy with the sunset. “You’d do that?” Dean asks, coming closer.

A lump forms in Castiel’s throat, though he nods through it, putting on his best brave face. “Whatever you want, Dean. You can have it.”

“Anything?”

Castiel nods.

Dean licks his lips. “Good.”

With calloused hands, Dean grabs fistfuls of Castiel’s trench coat and wrenches him in closer, knocking him off his feet. Castiel stumbles forward, clutching at the one thing that has always kept him steady. A hand lands on Dean’s shoulder; the same one he grabbed when he pulled Dean free from Hell.

Dean’s gaze is dipped down, fixated on Castiel’s mouth. Castiel can count every lash on his eyes, every freckle on his cheeks.

“Dean,” Castiel breathes, feeling the rush of Dean’s breath on his face.

Dean licks his lips again before diving in, kissing him. Touching their mouths together slightly off-center, his hand tucked into the crook of Castiel’s neck.

Castiel grips at Dean’s waist; touches at the base of Dean’s throat. He feels Dean’s pulse pounding, the flutter of his skin as his jaw moves, pressing without hesitation until Castiel gasps, overwhelmed by the sensation.

The sunset flickers around them, retreating from navy into summer blues. The sun backpedals above them, illuminating the entire sky.

Dean chuckles as he pulls back, squinting upward. “Excited, are we?”

Castiel flushes. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, it’s been so long that I’ve been hoping we would—” He swallows down his embarrassment, tentatively joining Dean in his laughter. “Okay. Maybe I’m a little enthusiastic about this.”

Dean laughs harder, the crinkles around his eyes coming out. He cups Castiel’s cheek and reels him in again, kissing him firmly. His hand remains there even after he pulls back, looking at Castiel with a fondness that makes his heart warmly ache.

Dean does seem different, now that Castiel is standing before him. More settled. Comfortable in his own skin.

“I love you,” Castiel says, squeezing at Dean’s hip.

“Me too.” Dean clears his throat. “I, uh—love you too.”

Castiel could stand forever with Dean, his thumb rasping a gentle arc against Castiel’s cheek. But a whole new realm is out there, ready for them to explore together.

“Come on,” Castiel says, tugging gently on the belt loops of Dean’s jeans. “I have so much I want to show you.”

A whole new heaven is out there, ready for them to share.

**Author's Note:**

> I have notes for a continuation of this fic from Dean's POV, which I may write depending on reader interest. 
> 
> Thank you for getting this far!
> 
> also on [tumblr](https://vaudelin.tumblr.com/post/636160088527224832/heaven-reconstructed-by-vaudelin-teen-9200-wc).


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